


Breaking The Hearts That Wouldn't Bend

by Emamel



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: An Exercise In World Building And Character Exploration, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Complicated Relationships, Dysfunctional Relationships, Everyone Has Issues, Few Of These Relationships Are Completely Healthy, Having A Soulmate Does Not Necessarily Help The Issues, Minor Character Death, Multi, Non-Binary Hange Zoë, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Platonic Soulmates, Romantic Soulmates, Sometimes It Makes The Issues Worse, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2014-06-18
Packaged: 2018-01-25 09:39:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1644128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emamel/pseuds/Emamel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where everyone is born bearing the mark of their soulmate, happiness should be guaranteed; nothing is ever so simple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mikasa

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a fun fact about me I bet you guys didn't need to know - I have a serious weakness for soulmate AUs. Especially the ones where the soulmate thing royally fucks everyone up. This seemed ideal for SNK. I couldn't help myself. I am so ashamed.
> 
> A few things to note - I have drawn aspects of this AU from various sources, ie the manga, anime, and various extras floating about, so it's a bit of a canon mishmash. Also will be working a couple of headcanons in there for good measure. I also can't guarantee regular updates.; obviously I will try my best to get this thing typed up as quick as I can, but there are no promises. Number of chapters is subject to change. I have it mostly planned out and it will, for the most part, follow the main plot of the anime. I'm not even going to touch the recent manga chapters in my writing until I have a better idea of what's going on. Which brings me onto another thing - for those of you watching the dub/just getting into SNK, THIS IS NOT SPOILER FREE. 
> 
> And finally, I am considering getting myself a tumblr for writing and fandom and personal junk - is it worth the hassle, or should I not bother?
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy :)

Mikasa couldn’t remember a time when her wrists weren’t covered. It hadn’t taken her long, as a child, to realise that she was different to her parents, to everyone else that she’d met – and it had taken even less time to understand that, in this case, different was bad. By the time her sixth birthday came around, she had stopped asking her parents why both her wrists bore marks. Everyone else that she knew, everyone else that she had ever heard of had just the one, on the left wrist.

They varied, of course, as individual as the people that held them, but hers were simple. On her left wrist, a single line of bloody red. On her right, twin lines of wavy blue. At night, she would unwrap the cloths that hid them and trace the clean, careful lines with shaking fingers, pressed her mouth to them and didn’t dare to think what they might mean. She could remember her mother telling her stories as the sun set, blankets pulled tight around her shoulders. Stories of people that found their soulmate, that lived happily ever after with their perfect match, as though that was the ultimate achievement in one’s life.

Mikasa never wanted her life to be defined by a chance meeting with a stranger. Yet still, she took comfort from the colours, both so vibrant and strong. If they were anything like her soulmates, she thought, then maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

Her parents told her _you can’t have two soulmates_ – that’s the point, they tried to explain. A soulmate is a person’s perfect match. There can’t be two.

She stopped voicing her protests eventually. Allowed them to hide her away as much as possible. To take the necessary ‘precautions’. They couldn’t have people thinking there was something wrong with her, after all – even if they never told her, she could hear them talking late at night, long after the sky had been swallowed by darkness.

Both wrists were hidden from prying eyes – the marks were considered private things anyway, so the bandages around her left wrist drew no attention; around the right she tied a ribbon. It was pretty, a simple thing. She had never been one for gaudy jewellery but she found the length of fabric suited her tastes perfectly. It was soft against her skin, smoother than the abrasive bandages – but best of all, no one would ever think to question why a young girl might wear a ribbon around her wrist.

Growing up, she learnt to smile as week after week, in every village they walked to, she listened to the other children chatter excitedly about their marks, about their soulmates. By the time she was seven, she knew of at least four children her age that had already found theirs. She rubbed absently at her wrists and tried to shut out their gleeful cries, the gentle teasing of friends as they shared such intimate knowledge so carelessly. A mark was a thing to be treasured, not put out on display, her parents often said. She had no reason not to believe them as a child. Later she would wonder if they had simply been afraid of her revealing her secret.

Sometimes she wondered if the purpose of the clan ritual her mother spoke of was to draw attention away from the mark.

The symbol that her mother carved into her wrist just touched the bold red and she stared appreciatively at the picture the two made – sharp and dynamic, she could almost distract herself from the blood that curled over the slope of her arm to drip on the table. It hurt, true, but the pain was different from a scraped knee or stubbed toe; more precise. She traced the shape of the ache with a fingernail until her mother batted away her hand to re-tie the bandages. Even then, she couldn’t stop drifting gentle fingertips over it, thinking of the way she felt settled and content for the first time in so long.

There was no sense of unease, no prickling at the back of her neck as her instincts tried to warn her of something that her rational mind had failed to comprehend. In fact there was nothing, enough nothing to fill her lungs with a void that rendered breathing impossible. The blood that stained the floor was a familiar colour – her hand clamped down over her left wrist with a ferocity that left her near-crying out with the pain.

No sound emerged from her gaping mouth, any shout of fear left silent by the vacuum that spread through her chest like a rot.

Her mother – brave and strong, why hadn’t she noticed before? – threw herself forward, scissors gripped in certain hands. She fell before the men like a tree in a storm, her life torn from her throat with a terrible choked scream.

Against the floor, her feet shuffled one then the other, but she couldn’t run. Couldn’t scream. Couldn’t even bring herself to cry; just gripped her wrist and stared at the bloody line that had been her mother’s throat, swallowing back the hollowed feeling in her throat.

Hours passed in that way. She was moved like a slab of meat, thrown carelessly around, but she felt none of it, saw none of it. The image behind her eyes wouldn’t fade no matter how many times she tried to blink it away. She’d never had nightmares before, and she knew that this wasn’t one now. The sharpness of the images alone told her that much, yet still she curled her hands into fists until her nails bit deep into her palms as she tried to force herself awake. It didn’t work and didn’t work until she eventually stopped trying.

Sinking deep into herself, she almost didn’t hear the faint knock at the door. The men didn’t know what to make of it; from her position on the floor she couldn’t see any of what was going on until the figure in the doorframe crumpled in on himself as though his insides had been burnt away. She thought she saw a flicker of red, and told herself it was blood.

The boy that came rushing through the door could be no hallucination, though. His image was too sharp, as though the world had suddenly blurred to focus on him – he looked so unreal that she thought she couldn’t possibly have made him up.

More red had seeped into the wooden floor by the time he sat back, knife clenched tight in his right hand. There was still a glimmer of unholy anger in his eyes when he turned to face her – she didn’t think it was possible to be less afraid of him, of this boy that looked so pitifully fragile even when spotted with a stranger’s blood. He moved toward her slowly, with none of the loose grace lent to him by his fury. The knife was still sharp, sharp enough to cut through the ropes like butter – it never occurred to her to flinch away from the blade.

“I’m Eren,” the boy said, and something about the name resonated in her memory, something that she couldn’t place until he continued, “I’m Dr. Jaeger’s son; you know my dad, right?”

Anything else that he said was lost in the flickering of images before her eyes – of the men that had grabbed her, of the three men.

“There were three of them,” she murmured, voice pale and torn as though she hadn’t used it in months. Eren’s eyes widened at the sound of footsteps heavy against wooden floorboards, but he still couldn’t move fast enough. The sound of leather against flesh was sickening, almost worse than the pained cry of a child kicked across a floor. Eren’s eyes were wide, his hands curled into claws as the man lifted him by his throat and _squeezed_.

“Fight,” he hissed, and the words echoed through her, chiming, resonating. She’d always loved the sound of bells, and the calm that settled over her held the clarity of their song.

In her hands, the knife felt familiar, still warm from Eren’s skin. She could do anything, but anything wasn’t enough. She had to do _something_.

She took a deep breath; her grip on the knife was steady. Already, she knew that for Eren’s sake, she would do anything.

She threw herself forward as Eren went limp.

 

 

It wasn’t until they reached Eren’s house that her mind began to slow from the instinctive state it had slipped into. She could still feel the salt trails that curved down her cheeks; she hadn’t bothered to wipe them away as they fell. Luckily, she reflected, she had avoided making a mess of Eren’s scarf – or her scarf, now, she supposed. He had given it to her as a gift, after all. The fabric beneath her fingers had worn delightfully soft with age – it slid through her hands like smoke.

Eren wore his left wrist uncovered, and though she tried not to stare, it was difficult not to notice the broad expanse of colour that spanned its width. A strange shade of blue, unfamiliar and mottled like light on water.

Neither of them mentioned it, though Eren had to have known that she’d seen.

She kept both her wrists carefully hidden from him – her parents’ warnings rang in her mind, and she couldn’t bear the thought of him knowing yet.

That night, she dreamt of water that spread as far as the eye could see, and the shadowed figures that stood beside her cried with joy. She awoke with tears on her face – the Jaegers were carefully tactful, and even Eren, who seemed so unrestrained in everything he did, managed to control his tongue.

Breakfast was simple but hearty, and Carla’s hands were as soft as her voice when she brushed Mikasa’s hair back from her face. It seemed that all three of them were trying so desperately to make her feel as though she was welcome in their home; she might have been unsettled were it not for Eren’s reassuring smile. He had a wonderfully rare smile that liked to lurk at the corners of his mouth, ready to stretch wide at any second.

Carla looked very like her son – or rather, he looked a great deal like his mother. Though her face had been worn down by time, her eyes and her smile were still bright as a child’s.

If either Eren or Grisha noticed that smile, they made nothing of it. Eren rushed his breakfast as though afraid it may be snatched away at any moment, pushing back his chair the instant he was done. Mikasa, who had managed to stomach only a little bread, followed suit quickly, washing her plate and hurrying after him out of the door. Behaviour like this was normal for Eren, she would soon learn. He said that he couldn’t stand being trapped within the house – bad enough that they had to be penned within the Walls in the first place, he liked to complain. At least in town he could feel the breeze against his skin.

By the end of that first day, she knew what the mark on Eren’s wrist meant. Everyone and their mother knew that Eren and Armin were soulmates.

When the two of them were together, there was no topic they could linger on for as long as the world outside of the Walls. Inevitably, she was dragged into their discussions, and yet she found that their enthusiasm delighted her. Her parents, though loving and happy people, were always so much more reserved than the manic energy of these boys.

Most of all, the pair were enthralled with the vision of the ocean that Armin had created for them.

The blue expanse on Eren’s wrist made more sense then. And, when she looked, she thought she could see the mirror of the water in Armin’s eyes.

The mark on Armin’s wrist made no sense to her whatsoever – she said nothing, thinking that they might consider her rude for asking. It looked like words, but the lettering was like nothing she had seen before. She wondered if it was something that made sense only to the two of them.

Despite the warmth of the day, both Eren and Armin seemed to favour long sleeved cardigans, keeping their wrists mostly covered. Yet, when Armin shifted, she though she saw a hint of black on the inside of his right wrist, as though he had scribbled something there earlier and forgotten to wash it away. It seemed like the sort of thing he might do, she though, but then, she had known him no time at all. Besides. She had to know; if there was even a chance…

“What is that?” She asked, interrupting Eren mid-tirade. They both turned to face her, near-identical looks of curiosity shaping their features. Carefully, she indicated Armin’s wrist, afraid of shattering the fragile trust that had already formed between them. He glanced down and seemed to realise for the first time that it had shifted as he spoke – he tugged it down over his hand so quickly that Mikasa almost jumped. Even if she hadn’t suspected something was wrong already, this would have been enough. Seemingly unsure of what to do, Eren glanced between them, brows lowered over darkening eyes.

Mikasa made a decision – had she been anyone else, she might have offered up a prayer that it would work.

As it was, she took a deep breath and gently pulled the ribbon from her right wrist, palm facing up so they could see clearly. The sharp intake of breath was enough. She tugged her sleeve down, mirroring Armin.

“I’ve never shown anyone else before,” she murmured. The two boys shared a hasty glance before pulling her to her feet. Eren caught hold of the ribbon before it could hit the floor – when she dared look back at them, both were grinning. Something in her chest tightened. Despite her heaving breaths, it was as though no air was reaching her lungs – she didn’t know what to do, and yet she felt no fear.

Armin, being the slowest of the three, set the pace as they ran in the haphazard manner of children towards Eren’s house. Eren, being the loudest, was already calling out to his mother before they crossed the threshold. And Mikasa, who still did not understand their reaction, was a silent presence at their backs, waiting for some sort of explanation.

“Mum! Dad! Mikasa’s like us!”

 

 

The three of them stayed together that night, and many nights to follow, often in Armin’s home. It was smaller than Eren’s, and not as well furnished, but it held the most wonderful collection of books Mikasa had ever seen. Though not herself a particularly keen reader, there was no escaping Armin’s enthusiasm for learning – it was infectious, almost. Often, she mused on how fortunate they were that Armin’s grandfather was both a deep sleeper and somewhat hard of hearing. Eren’s impassioned speeches and Armin’s dramatic tales could, at times, get rather louder than intended.

At first, all the three of them could talk about was their relief at having found one another. They sat together, knees knocking one another as they each held out their wrists for inspection – Armin’s were both some form of foreign script, as she had suspected they would be. The words on his left wrist were not intended for Eren at all, but rather for her; when she looked closer, a dim memory of her mother’s beautiful calligraphy came to mind. Though she couldn’t translate it, she could at least understand the connection. His right wrist – with Eren’s mark – held more letters that she couldn’t read, but for this, at least, Armin had an explanation.

“It’s part of a secret language we made when we were very young,” he said, caught up in the memory. “This was Eren’s contribution. He hadn’t seen my mark before, so I knew that it must be him.”

They had all been so afraid that there was something wrong with them. A person couldn’t have two soulmates. Personally, Mikasa wasn’t sure how anyone could manage only having the one.

She showed hers next – the simple, clear lines of bold colour. Both boys traced them with delicate hands; the red of a bloody throat and warm scarf, the blue of the open ocean and intelligent eyes. Now that she knew what they meant, it was a wonder she could ever have doubted herself. For the first time in her life, the weight of other eyes on her mark didn’t feel crushing; Eren and Armin seemed overwhelmed by her presence. Neither of them had ever expected to find her, they explained.

Eren’s right wrist was eagerly anticipated. Armin had seen it before, but hadn’t understood what it meant, he told her with a sheepish smile, as though his ignorance on the matter was something to be ashamed of. He pulled away the bandages with as little ceremony as she might have expected had she known him well enough then to know what to expect. His mark looked faded, like an old scar sunk deep within the skin, yet it was perfectly smooth. A mirror image of the clan symbol still healing on her left – just above was a jagged red line, raised and angry. Eren sheepishly muttered about how he hadn’t realised the axe would be so sharp or heavy, and that he was lucky it was nothing worse. She gave him no verbal response; only held their wrists side by side for comparison. His skin was darker than hers after years spent escaping the house whenever possible.

None of them had heard of marks like this before, but that was fine. Nothing about them fit the accepted patterns, it seemed – so much the better, in Mikasa’s opinion.

After that, the three were inseparable.

Rumours began to spread quickly, and Mikasa was grateful that she had no time for the opinions of strangers – if she had a coin for every time she heard mutters of how intrusive she was, of how she had no business stepping on the toes Eren and Armin’s ‘bond’, then she would have been a rich girl. Talk like that seemed to roll off Armin like water over pebbles, but Eren despised it. It made no sense to her – she was the one that people seemed to take offense to. If she didn’t mind it, then why should he? They didn’t know what they were saying, she reassured him time and time again. If they did, they wouldn’t dare say a word.

It took months before she could sleep without Eren’s solid weight beside her, head tucked under his chin. Armin liked to sleep on her other side, curled up small with an arm looped across her waist; they kept the nightmares at bay and cried with her when the grief was too overwhelming for words. The days were too quick and bright for any notion of true sadness, but it was always lurking at the fringes of her mind.

So she found ways to keep her mind busy. There were always a hundred and one chores to be done around the house; Mikasa sometimes wondered if Carla was secretly, guiltily happy to have the extra hands. Besides, she didn’t mind helping – Eren, despite his love of the outdoors, was more adept at tasks such as laundry and helping his mother prepare the meals, whilst Mikasa found herself taking the greatest pleasure in any activity that could physically exhaust her; gathering and chopping wood, helping with minor repair work on the house or carrying water from the well when their pump ran dry. The tasks themselves were not difficult, but she loved the pull on her muscles, the bone-deep heaviness that came with over-exertion and so she continued to push herself to the limit. Carla softly expressed her concern in a thousand unspoken ways. Eren and Armin prodded her sore muscles until she kicked out at them half-heartedly, quietly thankful for the way they never pushed her to talk.

She fell so seamlessly into the routines of their lives that at times she could almost forget there had been anything else – the stabbing guilt wasn’t enough to prevent her from seeking out that comfort wherever possible.

Eren liked to sing when he thought that no-one could hear him; she often caught him mid-song as he pegged out laundry. Whilst not particularly talented, his voice was warm and pleasant to hear. Eventually, she came to expect the sweet tone as she walked past the door – she liked to stop to listen, learning slowly the songs from his childhood. Some were nonsense, whimsical songs used to pass the time as he worked, whilst others were slow and lilting like a lullaby. He grew restless when he’d been still too long, tapping fingers and feet in irregular patterns. He liked to press dried flowers between the sheets and clothes when they were clean to keep them smelling fresh. He could skip stones on the river but couldn’t roll his tongue. A thousand little things learnt over the course of days, weeks, months.

Armin liked to read and when he could get his hands on the stubs of charcoal spare from Hannes he would write and sketch the things he saw around him – it stained his fingers black and he would leave smudged fingerprints over their cardigans when he pulled at their sleeves. When agitated he became incredibly still, thoughts running wild across his eyes and he loved the feeling of grass against the soles of his bare feet.

She wondered if they were doing the same with her, memorising all of the little details and pieces of her that made the whole, and resolved never to ask them.

 

 

In the wake of the fall of Maria, Mikasa was careful to never leave their sides. They were sent on from refugee camp to refugee camp, one after the other as people continued to pour in and stretch resources to breaking point. Three children were easily overlooked in the chaos, and without any form of identification, it didn’t take long for them to fall through the cracks.

Armin’s grandfather was sent out beyond the wall armed with a rifle and three shots – a death sentence coated in sugar and fine words. Armin didn’t cry, only sat very still for hours on end while she and Eren pressed themselves against his sides and tried to lend him their strength. Eren was still suffering after the death of his mother, yet every shred of grief seemed to give way to an unholy anger that shook his limbs and darkened his features. They had not heard from Grisha since before the fall.

All of them were suffering. Food was scarce amongst the refugees, reliable shelter even scarcer, but they took up little room and found they had no appetite; they were never singled out by those that felt the urge to take out their impotent rage on others like them. They learnt to keep their eyes lowered and their mouths closed, though it killed them to have to do so. Sometimes, in winding alleys that stank of vomit and blood, they would take the time to sit and smile at one another, as though afraid they might otherwise forget how. It made her face ache after so long without.

At night, when Mikasa could feel the phantom splinters destroy her fingers, the strain on her shoulders too much for any child to lift, she wove her hands into the scarf about her neck and relished in its warmth. The stabbing hunger pains were a constant companion – the sting of tears often threatened, but she forced herself to blink them back. Her soulmates needed her strength then more than ever.

Time crawled by, and the three of them sank deeper into each other’s company – wary of the others in the camp, outright fearful of strangers, their only reprieve came when they ran beneath the blanket of a heavy night, out beyond the town and into the forests, where they could play at being carefree children once again. The chill wind whipped through her thin clothes, raising goose bumps on her arms – Eren’s skin was always warm, though, and he’d take Armin and her into his arms when the bitter night air was too much for them.

Sometimes, during their daytime wanderings, they saw the soldiers that were left and wondered how many of them had survived this long simply because they were fortunate enough to have never seen a titan. Eren called them cowards, and though a part of her agreed, she found that she couldn’t begrudge them their choice – if joining the military police could guarantee them safety, she would drag her boys there herself. After all they had seen, though, she knew better than to assume that hiding behind the Walls would be enough to keep them safe.

As it was, she knew that safety would never be an option, though she would do everything she could to protect them.

When the winter came and the snow began to fall, she felt the first prickle of fear in her stomach – after all that they had survived, she couldn’t bear the thought of something as mundane as the cold finishing them off. By then, they were all far too thin for her liking, skin stretched tight over their bones. Even so, they were doing better than many – Armin was intelligent, Eren resourceful when he had to be, and she was perfectly willing to go along with their schemes if it meant food in their bellies.

They made it through that first winter clinging to life by the tips of their fingers, clawing their way back to some semblance of health as the snows melted and the air warmed around them.

After that, things began to slowly improve.

The food supplies began to swell – farmers were able to utilise more of the land with Wall Rose than ever before to allow for the land lost to the titans – a rationing system was put in place to try to effectively utilise what little they did have, and new towns began to spring up, new houses crammed into every spare corner of the existing cities in a desperate bid to move the Wall Maria refugees away from the camps that had killed almost as many as the titans.

Mikasa sensed the hand of the military in the operation – she doubted that the king cared one whit about their fate.

Each day that passed seemed to be a little easier – the constant gnawing in her stomach had finally eased away to a barely-noticeable throb, and when she lifted her shirt, she found that she could only barely see her ribs. They were able to find new clothes, sturdier shoes. It wasn’t much, but they appreciated it nonetheless.

Often, when Eren had dozed off beside her, his head in Armin’s lap and her fingers in his hair, she wondered how she would have survived without their constant presence. Mostly, she concluded that she wouldn’t have.

More and more, as the state of affairs settled and tensions finally began to edge away from their breaking point, Mikasa found herself standing aimlessly and staring at the sky. It was strange, she thought, how it looked precisely the same here as it had In Wall Rose, in Shinganshina. For some reason, she had expected it to look different, though there was no real reason as to why that should be. Perhaps it was simply that her outlook had changed so drastically. The world could be cruel, yes, in a thousand ways both large and miniscule, and beautiful too; somehow, she still had the ability to be surprised by its capacity for both.

They, too, could be both cruel and beautiful, and that was how she could say with absolute certainty that they belonged in this world, in the endless expanse beyond the Walls.

They deserved all that it had to offer and more for the pain it had bestowed upon them. They would grasp their freedom with both hands when the time came, wrists pressed together, mark against mark.


	2. Armin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so when I said sporadic updates, I did not mean to leave this for over a month - I am so bad at this, smh.
> 
> Some more info on the complexities of soulmates, on how that is ingrained into the culture of the Walls, and all the various ways the 104th says a collective 'fuck that'. Because they aren't going to pay attention to the rules. 
> 
> Hopefully characterisations are all okay. I really struggle writing Armin. He's smarter than me.

The barracks were clean, dry, and most importantly, safe. The chances of the roof collapsing over them were slim to none – there were no thieves or murderers skulking in the darkened corners. The mattresses were stuffed with straw that had a bad habit of poking through the fabric, the sheets were stained, and there was always the lingering stench of over-exertion. For the first time in a long time, the three of them were clean of grime that rivers and buckets of stagnant water could never quite wash away, their stomachs were full of cooked food, and they didn’t have to pile together for warmth. For the first time in a long time, they were being separated.

It was not something unexpected – they had discussed the possibility of it long before enlisting, and yet the reality seemed so very different from their anxious speculation. The barracks were separated by only a few hundred metres, and yet they felt the absence of one another so keenly that they may as well have been on opposite sides of the Wall.

For Eren and Armin, the peculiarity of the situation was, at least, lessened somewhat by one another’s company; though Mikasa would never complain aloud of it, even to them, Armin knew that the situation was taking a heavy toll on her most of all.

There was no immediate solution that he could see – even if Mikasa informed their superiors that she was the soulmate of one of them (for they would never admit to the true nature of the bond between the three, not if they had any say in the matter) it was still unlikely that anything would be done to accommodate them. Whilst the soulmate bond was still respected, even revered within the military, they could not afford to let it interfere with protocol. Armin wondered what would happen if he were to point out all of the detrimental effects such a mentality could have on all aspects of a young soldier’s life, but he knew better than to put his idle wonderings to the test.

The nights were restless. Neither he nor Eren slept well – they both flinched awake at the slightest of sounds, reaching for a warmth that wasn’t there, shaking with half-remembered horrors. No-one commented on how close they slept together, but Armin could see the suspicions already beginning to form behind the eyes of his comrades.

Despite knowing that they were better off now than they had been for years, Armin’s body had never felt so wrecked.

Physical training started almost immediately – mastery of the 3DMG was no mean feat, and if they wished to cover the basic manoeuvres and develop any semblance of proficiency, they would have to cram practice into every free second of the three years. Armin found that the theory was simple to grasp, and yet he had very little aptitude for the gear, finding it cumbersome and inefficient. It used too much gas, provided too little power, and despite the incredible range of movement that it allowed, still left them vulnerable in the air.

As a result, everything hurt. The drills, the conditioning, all of it left him aching with a tiredness that sank bone-deep, and completely unable to rest. Each night he fell asleep with Eren’s fingers woven with his, and yet he’d find himself awake again only a few hours later.

By the end of the first two weeks, exhaustion had bruised their eyes and left their faces drained of colour. The other cadets noticed of course – it would have been difficult not to – but none of them knew what to say or to suggest. Of course they didn’t, Armin mused bitterly. They had no clue as to the nature of the problem.

Something had to be done, though. There was no possible way for them to continue like this – something that they were all aware of, and yet had no opportunity to discuss.

Eren’s nightmares worsened to the point that the only way he could calm was Armin’s hands smoothing over his hair, down the ridges of his spine and back again. His skin was feverish on those nights, eyes wild and unseeing until he finally returned to himself. Mikasa grew ever more tense, her newly short hair barely covering her face when she tried to hide the depth of her hurt – like a taught wire, she seemed ready to snap apart at any moment. And Armin himself felt like he was coming apart piece by broken-glass piece, leaving sharper and sharper edges behind. 

They still had their time together during meals and in the classroom, but after so many years of one another’s constant presence, it wasn’t enough – besides, everyone from Wall Maria knew that nights were the worst. Although the time when the Titans were the least active, it was also the time that the fears were most prominent. 

On the fifteenth night, Armin and Eren were startled awake by the strip of light that fell across their faces as the door opened and shut, soft footsteps ringing like thunder in their ears. The shuffling gait was familiar as a heartbeat – without a word, they shuffled apart to make room for Mikasa between them and she settled there as though she had never been apart from them. They still fit together effortlessly, with Mikasa’s head tucked over Eren’s shoulder and beneath his chin, Armin curled around her back with Eren’s hand holding his over Mikasa’s waist. The all-encompassing warmth was a comfort, and Armin felt his heavy eyelids falling shut again, more relaxed than he had been for weeks. 

When he opened his eyes again, he was unsurprised to find that it was morning – Eren and Mikasa were still breathing deep, mouths open and exactly the same as when they’d fallen asleep. A quick glance outside told him that it wouldn’t be long before the klaxon sounded to wake them. He almost shook Mikasa, to let her hurry back to the girl’s barracks before anyone else saw her there, but another look at their faces stilled his hand. They would be caught soon enough anyway; why not now? Any consequences could be dealt with in time. Though he had not been there long, he suspected that Shadis would have some measure of sympathy for them and their circumstances, even if his position as their instructor wouldn’t allow him to vocalise it. 

Armin shut his eyes and waited.

 

 

It didn’t take long for the other recruits to begin speculating behind their backs – the room would fall silent when even one of them entered, so there was no mistaking what it was they were talking about. Anything less than their soulmates, and someone would have plucked up the courage to ask by now. Armin could understand it well enough – as unlikely as it was that their situation was completely unprecedented, there was certainly never any talk of atypical soulmate bonds. 

That didn’t mean that they didn’t happen – Armin had seen variations on it play out time and time again, yet the subject remained taboo. 

In retrospect, it should have come as no surprise to anyone that Jean was the first to broach the topic. His tone was blunt to the point of being abrasive, but his eyes held nothing but honest curiosity as he asked them, before a silent canteen, which of them were soulmates. Armin suspected that more than one bet was riding on their answer, if the reactions of the other cadets were anything to judge by. Franz and Hannah – confirmed to be soulmates after a mere two days of training, though how they’d determined such after knowing each other such a short time, Armin wasn’t sure – leant forward as subtly as possible, whilst Connie, Sasha, Thomas and Mina went to no such efforts to hide their interest. Christa listened politely; Ymir watched Christa’s reactions far more closely than she did theirs. In fact, the only ones that seemed completely disinterested in the turn the conversation has taken were Berthold, Reiner and Annie. 

Armin shrank down a little, retreating as best he could given the circumstances – even the dim lamplight wasn’t enough to hide the half-panicked look that flashed across Eren’s features before he settled, too quick for a stranger to notice. Mikasa’s expression gave little away, but her eyes were slightly narrowed, her jaw tight – Armin knew her well enough to know that she didn’t know what to do for the best. She had trusted them years ago, two boys who were little more than strangers at the time, but this was different. This was dangerous. 

He cleared his throat. 

“What does it matter?” He asked, drawing all of the expectant eyes – their weight was a physical thing, pressing against his ribs to leave him gasping softly for air. His palms began to sweat, but he didn’t dare reach for his soulmates yet. Not when there were so many gazes turned on him. “Does it matter if we’re soulmates or not? We’re comrades – we’re expected to fight together, die together, _die for each other_ , but that’s less important than a soulmate?” 

By the end of it he was breathing hard, the colour rising quickly to his cheeks as his mind caught up to his mouth. Mortified, he shrank down in his seat, the remembered shrieks of _heretic_ echoing over the soft murmurs of the other cadets. Eren glared out across the sea of faces, daring even one of them to speak out against him – Mikasa’s eyes were hooded as she surveyed the crowd, picking out targets and evaluating weaknesses. Armin bit his lip as though that might draw the incriminating words back into his mouth so that he might un-speak them. 

To his great surprise, Jean nodded once, sharp as the taunting barbs of Armin’s childhood.

“You’re right,” he said slowly, gathering a head of steam as he went. “If we’re going to have to trust each other on the battlefield, we can’t wait for our soulmates or whatever to make those bonds with.” Armin didn’t miss the way his yes flickered towards Mikasa. It was almost comical, in a way. 

Marco placed a careful hand on Jean’s shoulder in support – Armin noted the way it trembled faintly. Though a fast learner, and dedicated to his training, Armin couldn’t help but think that Marco would never be suitable for life on the front lines; in the military police, he was sure that he would thrive. 

Jean, on the other hand, was something of an enigma – Armin was proud of his ability to read and assess people; personality, thoughts, actions, anything. Yet Jean seemed a contradiction on so many levels that Armin had eventually decided to settle back and watch. It was unnerving to say the least the number of times he had been forced to do that since enlisting, for any number of reasons. 

So many of their comrades were hiding things, important things. He wasn’t yet sure if it was something to be concerned about, but he had made a note of it, and suggested that Mikasa and Eren also keep their eyes open. 

Next to him, Eren’s shoulders shook with suppressed laughter – though his arguments with Jean were little more than bluster and unintentionally catching sore spots, listening to him try to be philosophical was clearly too much. Mikasa’s mouth curled at the corners; Armin himself was glad that the topic had not been carried further, and grateful that it had been taken to so well by the other cadets. 

It wouldn’t last – Armin knew that, would likely be counting down the days when he could feel the curiosity stretching to breaking point. Someone would ask them again, and wouldn’t be satisfied until they provided an answer. 

That, or another would be pushed into the firing line. As though Armin hadn’t noticed who was desperate to hide their marks at all costs, and who was unconcerned. As though he hadn’t noticed who had the strangest and strongest reactions to the topic. His parents were proof enough that finding a soulmate wasn’t a guarantee of happiness, and that happiness was not always provided by a soulmate. 

He had never met his mother’s soulmate, and he had seen his father’s only because the neighbourhood liked to point him out and mutter. He didn’t know why his mother had chosen his father, only that the bonds they shared with their soulmates were not considered acceptable. They had searched for years for a priest that would consent to marry them, but had found none willing. Everyone knew that a soulmate was a life-partner, a perfect match, the one and only (‘a match to what’, ‘the one and only what’ he had asked as a child, only to be hurriedly hushed) and a relationship that could so blatantly defy that was clearly unnatural. 

Sometimes, he wondered if that was one of the reasons they escaped beyond the Wall. 

Sometimes, he wondered if that was why he and Eren – and now Mikasa – had wanted to do the same.

 

 

It was a harrowing moment when he realised how many of the cadets wore a black band around their wrist. 

The 104th trainee division was split into several different classes, and so Armin was only vaguely aware of the others that passed by, but there were several that he knew by name. 

Ymir wore hers like a morbid badge of honour, sleeves hastily shoved to her elbows, the flat black stark against freckled skin. No-one asked her about it, though Armin was unsure whether she would be willing to talk – very little seemed to affect her, but surely a reminder of someone lost would manage it. She gave the impression of being remarkably open about herself and her intentions, whilst simultaneously never revealing a thing. At the very least, he doubted that she would take offence, or even be upset by it. 

Christa, it seemed, was accepting of this, and of Ymir’s clear advances. Her own wrist was swathed in white – Armin was almost certain, from what Mikasa had murmured to them, that the mark underneath would lead her directly to Ymir. Though he had never heard of a one-sided soulmate bond before, Armin was under no illusions that the system was perfect; nor was he blind enough to think that the relationship was as one-sided. A soulmate was supposed to be a perfect match, to be whatever it was a person needed, and what two people needed didn’t necessarily match up. Ymir may not have needed Christa as a soulmate, but there was no denying that she wanted her as a partner – something that Christa was more than happy to oblige. 

Had Christa been less well-liked and Ymir less intimidating, Armin suspected they would be the scandal of the cadets. As it was, their relationship seemed so very natural that few ever thought to question it. 

There were others that wore the black band. Mina – her soulmate had died young of measles, she explained late one night when the trainees gathered together. Daz – his had been killed in an accident mere months before he enlisted. And then there was Berthold. 

His bandage changed seemingly at random – certainly Armin had found no discernable pattern to the odd behaviour. Some days he wore white; it was on these days that he seemed the most settled and comfortable within his skin. He could relax enough to smile and talk amongst the other cadets – on the days with the black band, it was as though he did everything in his power to make himself seem smaller. His shoulders hunched over, his gaze fleeting and nervous; he would wring his hands and bite his lip and hope that no-one noticed him. Armin mentioned it to Eren and Mikasa one night, voice almost soundless in the gloom that settled over the barrack. 

“Maybe he just doesn’t know if they’re alive,” Mikasa murmured, her words muffled against Eren’s skin. Armin’s chest felt suddenly tight, as though he were suddenly a child again and seized with the fear that the sweating sickness may take Eren from him. He couldn’t imagine living with that indefinitely. 

He shut his eyes for a moment, and savoured the warmth radiating off sunburnt skin, the faint smell of sweat that clung to the blankets no matter how frequently they were washed and the gentle rush of air that meant they were all still breathing, still alive. 

Eren hummed thoughtfully after a while. 

“You know who would probably know? Reiner,” he muttered, voice slow and almost incomprehensible with sleep. His movements were languid and heavy as he turned towards them. 

“We aren’t asking Reiner,” Mikasa admonished, swatting carelessly at his ribs. The huff of Eren’s laugh ruffled Armin’s hair – no-one even glanced in their direction at the sound. Everyone had long grown used to them sharing a bunk and whispering long into the night. Armin reached over so that he could mimic Mikasa’s playful swipe, but Eren just caught his hand and held it there, sighing deeply. 

“Why not?” He asked. 

“It’d be intrusive,” Armin said, closing his eyes again and burying his face against Mikasa’s hair – it was soft, and still damp from the rain. “Leave that to Jean.”

 

 

Armin tried not to flinch at the sickening thud that resounded as Eren fell face-first into the dirt. 

Within seconds he was back on his feet, face red with exertion, wiping the filth from his cheeks and hair – Annie looked as disinterested with him as she ever did. Her stance, however, was very different from three weeks ago, when this had started. She was almost wary, on her toes and quicker than Armin had ever seen. Eren was presenting her with a challenge, however minute that challenge may be. Unlike before, she had to work to keep up her perfect victory record. 

A smear of blood on Eren’s mouth disappeared as he licked at his lips. Chest heaving, his mouth curled into a satisfied smile when he saw the smudge of dust on Annie’s jacket. Though he’d come nowhere close to winning, he had at least managed to land a hit. 

They had quickly drawn a crowd, as always – cadets not only from the 104th, but from the year above and below them liked to gather to watch the daily ritual of Eren being tossed about like a rag doll. 

This habit, this routine of theirs was an odd one. Eren’s determination was a secret to no-one, yet Annie seemed to gain nothing from the encounters; she gleaned no apparent pleasure either from defeating Eren or watching him improve. The time in which they practiced was their own, to do with as they wished – before this, Annie had isolated herself almost completely. There was a change about her, a softening of her knife-sharp edges and whiplash reactions. 

Not to say that she was any weaker than before – perhaps even the opposite. She was willing to spend time idly chatting with the other cadets now, even allowing herself a private smile at their antics. 

A sharp cry from Eren drew Armin’s attention quickly back to the fight; a glancing blow had caught his nose, but the blood flow had been so brief as to be nearly non-existent. He recovered himself and struck back, relaxed until the final second of each strike when he turned vicious. His smile was like quicksilver – dazzling and poisonous. Annie’s cheeks were flushed, her uniform coated in a fine layer of dust kicked up by steady feet. They danced, almost, rather than fought, an apparent whirlwind of lashing attacks and lightning dodges, because they had all learnt that the best way to avoid being hurt was to avoid being hit. 

Eren spun, presenting Annie with the all-too tempting target of his back for the split-second that she required it – her elbow caught him between the shoulder-blades, movements almost too quick to follow, and Eren was thrown to sprawl across the dirt with his sides heaving and sweat dripping from his hair. 

In their hand-to-hand classes, Annie never showed this level of skill – rarely would she show any sign of skill at all, preferring to slip away whenever possible. Armin doubted that the instructors had any idea of what she was capable of. There was a collective wince as Eren slowly pushed himself back to his feet, favouring his left side. Behind him, he could hear Sasha whispering excitedly to Mikasa, who replied with more of a smile in her voice than she would ever show her friend. Sasha and Connie, who seemed to be overflowing with emotion and affection – for each other, the families that they spoke of so fondly, their friends here – sometimes struggled to understand the depth of Mikasa’s feelings for all of them. She was expressive in her own ways, but those ways had to be learnt. For anyone that had known her only a short time, she could often appear uncaring towards anyone that wasn’t Eren or Armin himself. 

As the fight began to draw close to its natural conclusion, the shouting and cheering grew ever louder until Armin’s mind rang with it, hollowed out and repeating over like a bell chime. Eren lunged, a haphazard attack, phantom knife gripped in a child’s hands. 

Annie misstepped, misjudged Eren and his terrible wildness. One wrong foot, and Eren had her pinned, his mouth falling open in shock and triumph. Stunned, he took a few uneasy paces back as though expecting another trick – he offered his hand to Annie which she accepted out of some form of courtesy. They brushed themselves off as people swarmed to congratulate Eren for taking down the monster that was Annie on top form.

Or not, as it appeared to be – Annie seemed distracted, agitated, her eyes flitting nervously over the crowd. Her hand strayed to her left wrist before she caught herself and snatched it back. The bandages hung loose, pulled free during the fight. She hurried away, brushing past Reiner and Berthold as she went; Reiner stared confusedly after her. Berthold lifted a hand to mop at his brow with the black band at his wrist. A quick glance at Eren and Mikasa confirmed that they had seen; Eren winked and Mikasa dipped her chin a fraction. Armin turned to rush after her.

She hadn’t gone far; hadn’t needed to. There were few that had the required strength and ability to reach the spot of roofing she occupied, even after so many years of training – everyone knew that it was a favourite spot of hers. He climbed up as far as he dared and sat – Annie eyed him with the dismissive curiosity of a cat, though her body turned towards him, her hands beginning to reach out.

The bandage slipped free. Annie stared down at the blank expanse of skin as though seeing it for the first time.

Armin had never imagined that it may be a possibility.

“Just go,” Annie said, her voice heavy and tired. She did not seem to be angry that he had followed her, nor was she surprised. Her right hand moved to cover the pale skin as a reflex, a defensive move, before she stopped and brushed her hair back instead. “Please go.”

“Do you really want me to leave?” Armin asked, eyeing her expression warily. Her mouth tightened the smallest amount but she gave no reply.

“You know, my parents weren’t soulmates,” he said slowly, tasting each word for intent before continuing. “Some people go their whole lives without meeting theirs. The system isn’t perfect. Having a soulmate doesn’t guarantee happiness.”

“What happiness can we have in this world?” Annie asked, a surprising amount of bitterness creeping into her voice.

“We have whatever we need to have to survive this world,” Armin said, that old, ignored passion flaring in his chest, the desire to be out and free, to see the world as it was without the threat of the titans looming constantly. “Happiness doesn’t come from soulmates, or from anything else this society has taught us, Annie. Find something that makes you happy.”

She shook her head, mouth forming words that could have been _‘I can’t’_ before they were blown away on the breeze. The grief and guilt in her eyes was stunning to see, and Armin caught his breath, feeling like he’d been caught out in the most devastating storm.

Her words stayed with him long after everyone else had fallen asleep, echoing until he finally slipped into restless dreams of blood-stained smiles and the swathes of pale skin stretched bare.


End file.
